Angel with a Messenger Bag
by Princess Tweak
Summary: Jasper makes an unexpected visit to the Afterlife and meets Edward, a wayward Angel. Edward is positive that they are NOT Vampires. M for later chapters.  Slash, AU, AH.
1. In the Beginning

**Angel with a Messenger Bag**

A_/N: These characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The twisted tale I weave is something else. _

_I saw this outside the airplane window. Slash is boy-on-boy. Adults only, please. Stream of consciousness. All errors are mine._

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Chapter 1. In the Beginning

Ice. Screeching metal. Screaming. A searing burn up my side. Darkness. Cold. So Cold. So Fucking Cold. Blood. Lots of it.

Flashing lights. So Cold.

Inky black and a thundering sound in my ears. It's my heartbeat and it's really fast. Why?

-OOO-

I open my eyes, and see a white shape beneath me. Odd rectangular shape, so very white and there's a lump in the center of it.

A large mummy-shaped lump—human sized. Male, I'd guess. But why am I looking down on it? I glance around and realize I'm suspended above it. Curious.

I lift my arm, until now locked at my side, and disinterestedly observe the motion. I release the limb, and it chooses to drift downward, but I'm unable to touch the sleeping human beneath me. I'm too far above him. I finally puzzle out he's sleeping in a bed on the floor, and I'm... Not sure what I am. Drugged, possibly. It's a mildly pleasant feeling, and it comes with a very small buzzing at the back of my head.

Rolling over, I'm suddenly staring into a fathomless night above me. It's compelling, pulling me into it. Not a star or a shining planet in sight, either.

I take a moment to check back over my shoulder at the sleeping figure, and wonder why I care what happens to that figure. I can't see his face; it appears to be covered by a sheet. There is a small section of short, cropped blond hair that has escaped from the coverlet. Definitely male.

Bored with the turn my analysis has taken, I refocus on the void I'm about to enter. I should be terrified, because I've lost my anchor, and I've no rudder, or sail, or a rope to pull me back.

But all those arguments don't mean anything right now. This deep, silent, relentless sensation is sweeping over me, and I'm giving in. I've no regrets about it.

The sensation is much like being rolled in a blanket, as happened to me when I was twelve and my brothers had ambushed me in the barn as I went about my chores. The blanket had been scratchy, and the rolling, and their shouting, and the feel of the hay poking through the cloth had all served to disorient me. But that was a childhood memory; this is happening to me now.

And I am unable to stop it. Don't want to, in fact.

-OOO-

Some time must have passed, because I have no recollection of how long I've been sleeping.

Or dreaming?

There is a loud POPPING noise, and then I am above it all. It is very blue, very crisp, and very clear up here. Wherever I am, I can see it all. Yeah, clear is a good description. I'm even a little chilly, in spite of the sunlight.

I appear to be looking down on some foamy, puffy, cottony, bunched substance.

Touching it is out of the question.

"GET ME DOWN! HELP, HELP, HELP!" I am screaming, shrieking, begging for help, I notice. Almost as if I am of two minds. One reacts, and my other self gauges my reactions, labeling them as reasonable, or irrational, or just plain irritating.

Meanwhile, I am still screaming in terror.

Terror, you see, because I realize I am suspended above the clouds below me, and I am expecting to fall.

"Can I help?"

I close my mouth and the screaming, shrill, terror-driven sounds ceases. The voice has come from behind me, the sound a creepy, crawling sensation that finds a home just between my shoulder blades. I would swear I can feel someone's breath beating against my skin.

If I turn around, if I even can do such a thing, will I then become unfastened and plummet thousands of feet through the air as I fear?

"You can turn around, I'll catch you." The voice is comforting, even if I can detect a note of boredom in it. Is this creature accustomed to meeting new people who can only shriek?

Cautiously, I decide to see if I can pull myself together and consciously turn my body.

This is when I learn I don't actually have a body. Only a small bellow of horror escapes my lips this time before I bite down hard and swallow back the noise.

"Yes, you are correct. Your body is gone. But you can believe it still exists, and it will reappear for you. That helps sometimes." The disembodied voice is moving now, coming closer by the increasing volume of the words. The laws of physics don't seem to apply to wherever I am.

Curiosity prevails, and I will myself to turn. I never liked it when someone snuck up on me, and even now the instinct for self-preservation kicks in.

I turn, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand and salute. An apparition awaits me. I pluck that descriptor from thin air, appropriate because I am able to see all the way though the creature.

Meeting my first ghost triggers several more minutes of my incoherent screeching. The ghost is a male, I note in passing. Both of us listen helplessly until I can finally turn off the sound, much like a spigot being cranked shut with a knob. It takes time, but eventually the sound runs down, before completely disappearing.

Now that I can focus on my ghost, I wonder at his appearance. He is more substantial than he'd been when I'd first seen him. In fact, he's become opaque. I open my mouth to question this, but he responds as if he's been listening to my thoughts. Am I that transparent to him?

"You make me real."

"Huh?" Not my best comeback, but it has been a difficult day so far.

You. Make. Me. Re…"

"Just stop. That is so annoying." I pause. What do I really want to know from this floating apparition?

"Why am I here?" I ask.

"Everyone wants to know that, and none of us have answers, you see."

"Why am I here?" _Hoping._

"That didn't work when you were alive, and it won't work any better now. Repeating the question just serves to irritate your correspondent."

I process what he'd said: 'when you were alive.'

Am I dead? Something feels off about it. Shouldn't death be more final? More definitive? If I am dead, which I doubt, why do I have questions? All questions should have been answered by my death. That would only be fair.

I don't know how, but I know reports of my death are premature. None-the-less, I am positive I am right.

I take a moment to regroup, assessing my companion who is staring fixedly at my face.

"I'm staring because I've never seen anyone quite like you before now."

"Would it be too much to let me at least ask the question before you answer it?" I am annoyed. I doubt dead people could be annoyed, which further solidifies my suspicion I am not really dead.

And if I am correct, who is this man? Because he is no longer a ghost. He's become as real as I feel.

"I'm an angel."

"What's that black strip of material hanging off your shoulder?"

"Hmm, you're getting better at asking your question as you think it. It's only when you think it first, and then decide to speak that I can beat you."

"Are you avoiding answering me?"

"It's a shoulder strap for a leather messenger bag."

"Isn't that pretentious?"

"Not really. I happen to like it. I can keep my important documents in it."

"But you're dead; what documents do you need in heaven?"

"Let me explain," and I mentally fill in, _'No, let me sum up,'_ but my companion continues unperturbed by the first thought I have purposely cast in his direction.

"I'm not dead. I'm an angel. You are dead. That's the difference." The smug look on his face is the sort that I'd enjoyed knocking off the faces of other men when I'd been alive.

"So you admit you are dead? Well, that's progress," Edward opines.

We seemed to be at an impasse, so I elect to fall back on my Southern-manners.

"I'm Jasper. Do angels have names as well as wings?"

"Edward. And yes, we do have names, but wings have fallen out of fashion."

"I don't recall reading about any Angel Edward in Sunday School at the God's Light Episcopal Church."

A flash of annoyance momentarily mars the features of my new friend.

"Do you doubt me, then, Jasper?"

"Perhaps you are Devil, only sent to me to tempt me."

"Do you see any horns, or cloven feet?"

"If you were the Devil, would you be stupid enough to broadcast that fact? Cloven feet would be obvious. You strike me as a more subtle fellow, prone to the small dropped clue rather than the baseball bat to the head."

"I am an angel," he stubbornly repeats, saying it a few times to enjoy the sound of it rolling off his silvered tongue.

"Are you my Guardian Angel? If so, and I'm dead, you can't deny you did a shitty job of watching over me."

"No," he huffs in exasperation. "There is no such thing. It's a construct of what you would call intuition."

"Edward, your sentence makes no sense to me. None-at-all. And with death should come certainty, not confusion." I nod emphatically, my head bobbing making me a little dizzy. I'm trying to avoid looking down as we converse.

He sniggers, not a nice sound. "As a dead man, you've a lot to learn. I saw you floating here, mindlessly, and I determined to take pity on you, Jasper. I've not had a project like you in several hundred years. I simply felt the need to become corporeal once again. Taking you on is my ticket to being so."

"So how long were you observing me?"

"Thirty-seven minutes."

"That's all?" My voice is choked with emotion; I'd been expecting him to say 'two days' or perhaps several hours. But minutes? It is another mystery in an ocean of them, each no bigger than a drop of water.

"That's all it took, after several hundred years of searching." Edward stops short, as if he's revealed something he'd not intended to tell me.

"Were you searching for me, Edward?"

"Yes." Shifty eyes if ever I've seen any during my brief lifetime; can angels lie?

"Yes, we can. It comes with the territory. Useful when dealing with one the Devil has possessed. Fight fire with fire, that sort of thing."

"Why were you searching for me?" Is he going to me make me spell it out in excruciating detail?

"No, I've no desire to turn your vision of heaven into a living hell, an extremely painful image I saw in your thoughts just now. Trust me, Bosch was nothing more than a fanciful dreamer." I grimace at the idea of Edward poking around in my head for visual cues; hearing my thoughts is bad enough.

When I mentally ask him to continue, he inclines his head to let me know he's heard me.

"I wasn't actually searching for Jasper Whitlock. But I was looking for someone like you."

"Dead?" I am clueless. Why would he be searching for a former Confederate soldier?

"No, Jasper, you are confused. That was a past life. In this one, you were a…wait a minute, just give me a minute, it's on the tip of my tongue… Player? No, now it's called the acting profession. You were an actor!" He delivers the line, mighty pleased with himself, going by the wide grin on his face. It is a very beautiful sight, given that he is an angel, after all.

But no longer a soldier? Could Edward the Angel possibly be wrong? I can't remember being an actor, but I can remember the sound of gunfire, and cannonballs, and shouting, and whining metal as it twisted, and…

"I was riding a motorcycle and a car came out of blind alley without stopping. I could see the Black Cobra careening towards me out of the corner of my eye, and I swerved the bike to avoid being hit, and lost control of it…"

"That's right, Jasper." His voice is gentle, as if he regrets the necessity of agreeing with me.

"So I _am _dead." I'd been in a motorcycle accident and been killed, I guess. It seems pretty final, in its way.

"That's about all of it."

I briefly wonder if he's left out anything, but I have a more pressing question for him.

"Yes, you can be reborn, once your file has been reviewed and stamped for another shot."

"So this being dead might be a temporary thing, provided I was a good person when I was alive, right?" I am a little sketchy on the reincarnation process, other than what is readily accessible as part and parcel of popular culture.

Edward merely nods in agreement, his unusually robust locks flopping as he emphasizes how strongly he feels about the possibility of my rebirth.

_Whew!_ Even if my flavor of religiosity has been dead wrong about the subject, it appears no one seems to be holding a grudge. Evidently I am still eligible to be reborn to try again.

Forgetting Edward can read my thoughts, I can't help wondering if the opportunity for rebirth comes with an expiration date.

"Yes, it does."

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A/N: Completely stream of consciousness. I will post the next chapter soon.


	2. This Too Shall Pass

**Angel with a Messenger Bag**

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**A/N: These characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. This twisted tale of true love I weave is something else. **

**This is a Jasper x Edward slashy fic. Slash is boy-on-boy. Adults only, please. Stream of consciousness. Errors are mine.**

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**Chapter 2. This Too Shall Pass**

"So even in Heaven one can't escape the petty tyranny of expiration dates." I pause, suddenly uncertain. "I presume we are in Heaven?"

"We are the only two beings as far as your Human eyes can see; is this not your version of Heaven?"

"Innuendo is by definition subtle, Edward."

"Oh Jasper, were you hoping for dancing girls, jeroboams of champagne, and nubile boys feeding you grapes? Too late for that, I'm afraid." He shares a forlorn smile with me.

"I was thinking about recreating the everyday life I left behind."

"There are Rules; that violates several." His mood inexplicably improves with this revelation, while mine sours ten-fold.

In retaliation, I conjure up 'my version' of an actual Angel. Will he catch the reference?

"Giordano's _Saint Michael_? Jasper, I'm impressed, your knowledge base is more diverse than I imagined. "

Blithely ignoring my answering snort, he continues. "Do you seek an explanation for why you look like your proverbial Angel in this setting with your sky-blue eyes and yellow hair, and I do not?"

"Something like that."

"I'm a lesser sort of Angel."

"Explain, please."

"Jasper, I didn't search hundreds of years for you only to assume the ignominious mantle of Answer-Man in your death." There's that finely honed display of irritation again, so uncharacteristic of the Angelic disposition.

"Just how many Angels and their dispositions have you encountered before today, pray-tell?"

"Zero. Well, one now, I suppose." Unless Edward is nothing more than a Hospital-administered, morphine-induced fantasy? I quirk at eyebrow at him.

"So, you are back to doubting I am an Angel and you are truly dead?" He quirks an eyebrow right back at me, a hint of a smile turning up the corner of his luscious lips.

"Gee, thanks, Jasper. I was hoping you'd notice."

"Stop. Please, stop, I want a chance to speak. Can't you turn off the mind-reading?"

"Maybe."

"Is this another example of an Angel's ability to tell a lie?"

"Perhaps."

"Angel or not, if you don't stop with the equivocating…"

My threat remains unfinished, but seems to have the desired effect, deterring Edward's ambiguous responses for the moment.

Not that his exaggerated pouting is preferable, but I learn I am to have no choice in the matter. No amount of coaxing will now convince my formerly voluble, if enigmatic, associate to resume speaking with me.

We float in silence for what seems like an eternity, me forced to contemplate the pros and cons of an existence spent imploring a mute, wounded Angel for forgiveness.

Defeated, I slump down, seemingly doomed to inhabit a silent purgatory of my own devising. A cloud of despair envelopes me, and I begin to rail internally at a death sentence I do not understand. The reincarnation option takes on a certain lustre.

On the verge of weeping, my punishing Angel finally relents.

"It hurts my heart to see you like this, beloved Jasper."

Refusing his offer of assistance, I straighten up by myself and ask, "Edward, how did you come to be here with me? Exactly how did you 'find' me—Angel-radar?"

Unable to keep anything from him, I don't bother masking my skepticism. In fact, after his recent behavior, I wouldn't bat an eye if he told me he was really a Demon.

"I'm not going into the differences between Angels and Demons, Jasper. You wouldn't understand half of the words I'd use to explain even a tenth of it. Unless I've missed something in your file, and you are concealing an IQ over 200, perhaps?"

Regretfully, I shake my head 'no.'

"I didn't think so."

His casual dismissal only serves to bolster my natural resentment at being judged his intellectual inferior. Before he has the opportunity to read my thoughts again, I begin cautiously with, "I'll bet you are just another recently dead person, no different than me."

He starts in confusion at my unexpected attack. I press on. "Confess now, Edward. Didn't you die just a few minutes before I did, and we popped up here together? It would explain how you happened to be floating directly behind me."

"Only an Angel would have the patience to put up with your lack of faith, dearest Jasper," he groans.

I shoot Edward a look. I was straight in life, brief periods of experimentation aside, and I staunchly intend to defend said sexual preference in my death.

"Very well, we will discuss that topic later. For now, I accept that I must prove my Angel-dom to you by fresh methods. Literature is littered with the concept of the hero proving his worthiness via a test or trial. I shall conform."

"Hero, Edward?"

Shaking his head in exasperation, he asks, "Jasper, is there anything else you'd like to know before we take our leave of this place?"

Edward is a very bossy Angel, I decide. I'm _not_ leaving, even if it's impossible to plant my feet in protest. (Still keeping my eyes averted from looking for my actual feet.)

I resolve to simply wait him out. I'm feeling very safe here on my invisible ledge that's preventing any unpleasant plummeting. You see, I've reasoned that if I'm dead, smacking into the ground from several thousand feet overhead can't do me much harm. Although it could be painful.

"Not painful. Actually, rather amusing."

I quickly envision me and a giddy, wild-haired Angel caroming into Nevada's desert floor at a 45 degree angle only to bounce like rubber balls off the hard, dry surface of the Earth at impact. Would we hold hands my first time?

"Sure. Ready to try it now?" he graciously offers.

Studiously ignoring his waiting outstretched palm, I ask aloud: "Am I thus free here to do anything I desire, Edward? Aren't there any contracts to sign, meetings to attend, or scripts to follow before I'm released?" Silently adding, '_Shouldn't I sign-in with…an official representative of the Supreme Being to announce my arrival, and be counted, or added to the database of the dead?'_

Worried, I wonder if my failure to follow procedure might result in a forfeiture of death's benefits. Much like unemployment: forget to sign up by the deadline (hah!) and you lose out on the money.

I notice Edward has remained quiet during this swirl of breathless questions.

"Yes, I was letting you get it all out before I cut in. Your anxiety is once again throwing off thick streams of suffocating orange-red fumes, by the way." He delicately coughs to emphasize his point. "They interfere with the soaring Robin's Egg blue backdrop framing your lovely face."

"Isn't anyone expecting me to check-in?" I quiz him, attempting to bring his lyrical meanderings back to reality.

"No."

"Does everyone know I'm here, then?"

"Who's everyone? Oh, wait, I see you are thinking of _The Last Judgment_? That was Jesus in the center, just FYI. Although as an_ ignudo_, Michelangelo the painter holds a special place in my heart."

There's a brief interlude as I wonder what he's talking about, before he resumes speaking. "And your death has been properly processed and tallied, or I wouldn't hold your paperwork in my bag."

"May I see it?"

"Certainly not."

"Then why are you here?"

"I told you earlier, I've been searching for you." He pauses momentarily before adding, "Might your memory have been impaired by that bad skid on your bike there at the end?"

I suppress the indignation that swells at his matter-of-fact recounting of my horrific death, instead analyzing his assumption that memories of my human lifetime would have passed over pristine and intact.

"I'm fine, if a bit dead," I confidently announce. But, "Are we Vampires?" slips out before I can filter the thought, not that doing so would prove any barrier to his abilities.

"Have you ever met a Vampire?"

"There are more things in heaven and hell, et cetera. Not to mention that you are my first Angel, Edward."

"After thousands of years spent eavesdropping on promising humans who foolishly believed in Vampires and Werewolves, but not Angels, I've no patience for such thoughts on this day of days. Even when it issues from your precious lips, dearest Jasper."

Uncomfortable with his latest endearment, I don't hesitate any more. "Isn't there something we need to get out on the table before we proceed any further, Edward?"

At his blank look, I reluctantly allow a small selection of choice Corbin-Fisher moving images to flip through my head, much like fanning a deck of cards.

In a noticeably less exuberant tone, he says, "Was it intentional on your part that all of them sport a large black 'X' over the male genitalia?"

"So you do understand the significance of the symbol?"

"As in 'X' marks the spot, or am I reading too much into it?"

My strangled reply is a bit harsh, I suppose, for one who has kindly rescued me from an indeterminate period of soul-numbing, unrestrained shrieking. And perhaps is mistakenly thinking that doing so entitles him to a romp in my pants. Feeling a telltale twitch, I try to shove my hand into my pocket for a surreptitious adjustment, only to have it slide unimpeded down my thigh.

"Umm, Edward, where are my clothes?"

"You have only to remember them, Jasper, and they will reappear."

"And where are yours?"

"I've never had any." Immediately, I grasp that I have been staring full-on at his penis with nary an uncomfortable thought!

Like magic, an emerald wool jacket and tailored black slacks I'd admired on a store mannequin last week now cover his body. The lack of a shirt makes quite a nice contrast, his smoothly muscled, hairless chest framed by the jacket's black silk lapels. In another time, he'd be more than presentable to go Clubbing with me.

"Thanks, Jasper. I like your clothes, as well. You look good in a pair of jeans. I've always thought so."

Something about his commonplace remarks on our new outfits relaxes the remaining tension inside of me, and I wiggle my toes and look down. "I'm ready, Edward. Let's ride," the dialog snippet dredged up from a Western I'd been watching before deciding to make the ill-fated motorcycle run.

"Good, I thought so. May I hold you?"

"Maybe you'd better; I've never attempted flying before today."

Stepping across the emptiness between us, his body is definitely a firm, fleshy reminder of my human life. In fact, with his curly bronze hair and brilliant green eyes, he looks remarkably like an actor I'd often admired. At least, until I discovered he'd sold out his principles to appear in a tween…

"Wish fulfillment." Edward offers, matter-of-factly. "That's why I've manifested in this form for you."

At the look of utter confusion on my face, he snickers. "Didn't you earlier think there had to be some benefits to being dead?" As the heat flares in my cheeks, he clarifies, "Death isn't entirely unkind, contrary to popular opinion."

"Does he wear a cowl and carry a scythe?"

"Hardly. Chaps and spurs. Now, lean into me and face forward. I'll hold you around your waist, and you set your soles on the tops of my feet." I can't stop the giggle that escapes my lips at his use of the word 'soles' and he uses the moment to check if I'm ticklish. When I double over to escape his questing fingers, he good-naturedly teases me about my life-long affliction, but eases us back up into a standing position.

And then we are off, physically lifting up as if we'd been standing on a platform we have to clear. I hear what can only be the beating sounds of a powerful set of wings, and turning my head to see them, find my lips nearly touching his, slightly parted in invitation. I jerk back around, embarrassed by what I almost did.

"I only_ said_ wings are out of fashion, not that I don't have any," he mouths against my ear. "And I would have welcomed your kiss, Jasper."

A horny gay Angel. And me a straight dead man.

Perhaps this is hell after all.

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A/N: The next chapter will take a little more time. Did you enjoy this one? Thanks for reading.


	3. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

**Angel with a Messenger Bag**

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**A/N: These characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The twisted tale I weave is something else. **

**This is a Jasper x Edward slashy fic. Slash is boy-on-boy. Adults only, please. Thanks for the encouraging feedback; I cherish every word.**

**We actually get a soupcon of slash herein.**

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**Chapter 3. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing**

Within minutes, I deeply regret my rash decision to leave the safety of my invisible ledge.

Even with my eyes closed, I'd rate the experience of flying courtesy of Air Edward somewhere between _harrowing _and_ terrifying. _

"Bone-chilling. Torturous. Excruciating." Edward offers his choices.

"We're not playing for the triple word scores here," I snap. From habit, I take a deep breath, and chant:

_Om Mani Padme Hum. Om Mani Padme Hum. Om Mani Padme Hum._

"The Jewel and The Lotus, Jasper?" I nod uncomfortably, the rushing of the wind past my ears only emphasizing my predicament. "You are dead; the physical no longer need pose any threat," he gently reminds me. "Let go of your fear."

I open my eyes and hazard another look straight down. Stratocumulus form around 8,400 feet, and I'm looking at some right now.

"Those puffy clouds visible between your feet are two miles below us."

I may be a corporeal ghost being hauled through the air by a winged mythical creature who wants my ass, but motion sickness is a god-damned effective deterrent to wonderment. Closing my eyes just seems safest at present.

A small groan tells me I've managed to ruffle Edward's wings. "Caution, Jasper," he pleads. "Remember Moses and the granite-etched tablets."

Well, yes, I suppose this sojourn in purgatory _could_ define the inopportune moment to break one of the Ten Commandments. I immediately regret the 'god-damned' and silently offer up an apology.

"Very good. **She **considers the resurgence in cursing to be one of the worst of modern-day evils." He pauses dramatically. "I expect another Moses with written clarifications any day now. Somewhere in the Middle East, a grubby, myopic scribe is engaged in auto-writing even as we speak. All he will need is an unemployed publicist or a YouTube account to get the message out. No miracles necessary."

Instantly, I understand '**SHE**' to be the Divine Being that Western civilization has steadfastly refused to posit as anything but male.

"As one of **Her **Angels, I have an instant link to **Her**," he clarifies. "Ciao, bella," he says, opening the link.

"Can you ask **Her **anything?" I whisper. A personal link to the all-knowing, all-seeing, invisible Being must be rather like having a high-speed Internet connection, but with more reliable answers.

He snickers. "**She** says that's the best thing **She**'s overheard all day." A brief pause. "I'm to bring you around sometime."

Holy Cow, **Her** Supreme Being wants to meet me? Jasper?

"Not really. **Her** version of a joke. **Her **presence would incinerate both of us, permanently. But **She**'s a little happier for the exchange.

Meaning what? A carpet of flowers has burst forth from a formerly barren field somewhere in Africa?

"Thailand. And thanks for the idea."

He signs off, and I'm confident enough now that I'm peering through my fingers at the blue sky around us. Glancing down, I see we are detouring past long wispy streamers of Cirrus cloud formations. Translation: we are cruising at around 20,000 feet, lower than most jet travel.

"Flight paths can be brutal on Air Edward's wings. Although I will ascend to 36,000 feet if you wish?"

I shudder at the idea. "Completely unnecessary."

"Air Edward is much more reliable that modern jets," he opines, clearly enjoying himself.

Expecting an answer in the thousands or even millions, I ask, "So, how many of the recently Dead have flown Air Edward?" Anything to distract my thoughts.

After a longish wait, Edward finally offers up, "One."

Tightening his grip on me, perhaps in anticipation of a struggle, he clarifies with, "Just you."

Even a guinea pig in a cage has an expectation of free will. He can choose to mount his treadmill going nowhere or not. I was never offered the option of Edward or no Edward whisking me through the troposphere. He just popped up on my cloud after I died. Why?

"I'm your flight instructor?"

Dead or not, I can recognize a spur-of-the-moment lie when I hear one. "That's a rather modern term for an Angel with thousands of years on his treads, but not a single pupil under his belt." _And just where are my wings and a halo_?

"Too early for wings," is his cryptic reply.

We fall once again into the Valley of Silence. A million emotions wash over me, but anger and regret prevail. Why am I dead? Why don't I feel joyful or even peaceful in this transition to the Afterlife?

"Would you be less agitated if I were female, Jasper?"

_Your idea,_ i tell him by way of a warning. Concentrating, I try imposing an image of Katy Perry over that of the bronze-haired, green-eyed actor I've been graced with in the form of Edward. Several minutes pass, but no pointy size C's are poking me in the back. Quite the opposite, unfortunately.

"You may try again, but The Penis is Immutable."

Suspecting Edward well knows he's just mouthed the title to a gay porno I downloaded last week, I ask, "But must it be permanently erect against my back?"

"Isn't that a good thing?"

When I emphatically shake my head, Edward subtly adjusts us, and I no longer feel the good thing in such high relief.

"You think to reject me, and yet have no girlfriend or wife to mourn you, Jasper-the-beautiful. How sad. Unless your file was wrong?"

For the second time today, I grudgingly acknowledge his file on me is correct. Alice and I broke up more than a year ago, and I've been on my own ever since. I close my eyes in resignation; who knows what else he's read in my file.

Nodding in agreement, my novice Instructor seems completely at-ease once again. In spite of his wings performing double-duty while clutching me against his chest, he isn't the least winded.

"Practice. I swoop into the fields and gather the forsaken unto me. Builds upper-body strength."

At my gasp of horror, he clarifies: "Cattle. Destined for the slaughterhouses."

Perhaps emboldened by my sigh of relief, he feels the need to elucidate.

"They don't like heights and current breeding practices render them easily susceptible to heart failure. There's not much point in trying to resuscitate them."

Grotesque images of the poor beasts with their entrails ripped-out are shipped to Edward in spite of my hasty precautions.

"No, not that. I just drop them from 10,000 feet. "

I send up a silent prayer that I do not meet the same fate.

"Never, my Jasper. The view is awe-inspiring if you would but re-open your eyes."

_No._

Unwilling to argue this point further with me, Edward opts instead for a platitude. "All in good time, my friend."

One minute, I am peaceably, blissfully unaware of my surroundings, eyes closed, Edward humming happily against my hair and sucking on the ends, I suspect. And the next? All hell breaks loose.

"Oh, Holy Mother, hold on," Edward shouts alarmingly into my ear before performing a maneuver that would make a Blue Angel squadron jealous. His wings are beating furiously now, and we are definitely headed down towards the rolling clouds several thousands of feet below us.

"What is it?" I bellow in terror at the supposed danger tracking us. A flying Devil with a flame-thrower? A soul-stealer? What could it be that has my Angel running for cover?

We don't make it.

Edward eventually slows, coming to a halt as his wings cease their frantic movement. "Pointless."

I mentally prepare for my second Death of the day.

"He's here. Act natural."

At this stage, I don't really have a point of reference for 'natural'—it's still my first day as a Dead man.

"Just don't try to bolt," he hisses at me.

Ah, right.

"Hail, mal'akh. So you found him," a stentorian voice booms from above us as the sound of wings accompanies a tall, swarthy-male drifting down to eye level. I watch carefully but only see the tips of his wings folding up behind him. This Angel is definitely not a ghost.

"Jasper is mine_. It is written._ Whence have you come, Jacob?"

"I saw his name on the Rolls of the Dead; curious about the timing." The powerfully built and completely naked creature has long dark hair that floats about his shoulders. It looks like a parlor trick, but may be natural. His skin is flushed and rosy from effort expended to catch up with us. He is several inches taller than my Angel and much more heavily muscled. He lacks any sexual organs. A Eunuch?

Edward shivers behind me; can this new being hear my thoughts, too? My protector assumes a defensive posture, leading me to believe it's anyone's game here.

"It is written," he stubbornly repeats.

"Perhaps he'd rather try his luck with me?"

Instinctively, this guinea pig leans toward the treadmill he knows over one that has my Angel trembling on his unshod feet. "I'm staying with Edward," I pipe up loyally, but can't help wondering if my new acquaintance has had more than one pupil.

"Thousands," Edward mutters. "And Jacob's still alone."

"Edward! Edd-warrd? Heh-heh—good one. Oh, well. And boys? Alone or not, at least I have my Brothers," my new acquaintance beams.

An Afterlife filled with scores of his Brothers is a sobering image.

"Too bad Edward found you first," he continues. "But I suppose it was inevitable, given your history."

"What history?" I ask, understanding something important is being left out here.

"You haven't told him yet, have you?" Jacob is definitely gloating over his discovery.

"He will know the truth at the proper time." Edward is once again on the defensive.

"Wish I could stick around to see it. But I'm on patrol. Sightings on the Northern perimeter. We were friends once, Jasper. I'd like to revisit that, sometime." And then he unfurls what must be the longest wings I've ever seen in my limited experience of same, and with a fury of sound and dazzlement to mine eyes, Jacob turns and sweeps away from our position. I watch in amazement as his form shrinks to a small point of light that disappears completely from sight in less than a minute.

If there's a good explanation for this, I want to hear it from Edward's ruby lips.

"All in good time," he again attempts to placate me.

That was a rather incredible trick that Jacob pulled off, disappearing like that, I muse.

"I possess many talents those of the inferior Powers Choir do not share."

"So Jacob is a member of a rival Angel gang named the Powers, eh? What's the name of your gang, Edward?" I mentally place elegant, graceful Edward astride the new Ducati Diavel, with its sleek style and dollops of Mediterranean passion. But Jacob and his band of brothers running patrols? Husky-owners, I decide, especially the off-road models.

"The Choirs are not like rival motorcycle gangs, Jasper."

Another Belief shot to hell. "You've heard of the Hell's Angels, Edward?"

"Your confusion is understandable, I suppose." He hesitates, reluctance obvious before continuing, "But in truth, I form a Choir of the Dominations."

Domination? Is he serious? "Do you and your boys understand the current associations of your tag?"

"The perversion is a constant thorn in our side. No less than H'Aro himself has sought an explanation for it. We believe it to be the Devil's work."

"So there's a hierarchy among Angels?"

"As among the Human living, yes."

"Why did Jacob say 'we were friends, once'—was he speaking to me or to you?"

"Accuracy and honesty demands that I advise you: both of us."

"Does this have anything to do with reincarnation?"

After another interminably long pause, he decides. "Perhaps your visit to St. Peter is overdue after all," regret straining his voice. "I cannot answer most of your questions."

I'm actually intrigued by the idea of meeting St. Peter of Pearly Gates fame, the biblical celebrity, the lying Peter of 'before the cock crows three times' notoriety.

Edward interrupts me with, "Umm, Jasper, those Pearly Gates that open to the sounds of birdsong and clang shunt? Prepare to be disappointed."

I take the news in stride. I'm just recently Dead. What more can the Afterlife throw at me?

"Worse, I'm afraid, sweet Jasper. You'll be stripped forever of the memory of your corporeal flesh. It is a necessary precaution before entering the Kingdom."

Before I protest the decision that requires I sacrifice the memory of my mortality, Edward interrupts again with, "I'd like to kiss you now. Just one, before the opportunity is forever lost to us." A look of undeniable longing passes over his features, one I recognize as wanting someone who doesn't want you back.

Still, I hesitate; I've not kissed anyone since Alice. But after a year devoid of passion, and now facing the rest of eternity without it, Edward may not be my first choice, but he will have to do.

"Just keep it G-rated," I admonish, and he nods meekly. I close my eyes and prepare to think of English actors I once admired.

As Edward's beautiful ruby lips weave a delicate trail up the side of my neck and skim along the line of my jaw, I relax into the sensations evoked by his gentle explorations. His warm body is a balm to my nerves, his embrace once again a welcome haven on this first day of my Death.

Unexpectedly, tears prick the corners of my eyes at the sudden knowledge that this is what it means to feel cherished by an Angel.

Amazed, I turn to face him, and meet eyes blazing with an unearthly fire. "O, Jasper, expectavi diu te," he whispers. My sigh is lost in his soft welcoming kiss that seems to go on and on, a sweet and blissful entanglement unlike any other in my life, and I want more. His fingers trace soothing patterns over my back and along my sides, radiating love. I've never felt more exalted.

The perfect melding of our imagined bodies stirs an elusive memory, no more than a spark, but it is enough.

"I do know you!" I murmur in astonishment.

"You are mine, and I am yours, forever. It is written," he affirms, his cheeks flushed with happiness and desire.

Hmmm. How does one tell an enamored Angel, 'I like you, but I'm not quite ready for **that **yet' without risking being dropped from 10,000 feet?

It appears I'm about to find out.

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A/N: Even in the Afterlife, Jacob wants what Edward has. Thanks for reading. xoxo

_Mal'akh: Hebrew for Angel or Messenger_

_An Angel hierarchy: Seraphim—Cherubim—Thrones-Dominations (Edward)—Virtues-Powers (Jacob)—Principalities—Archangels-Angels (Guardians)—ranging from most God-like to most Human._

_expectavi diu te = long have I waited for you (an approximate translation)_


	4. A Fly in the Ointment

**Angel with a Messenger Bag**

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**A/N: These characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The twisted tale I weave is something else. **

**This is a Jasper x Edward slashy fic. Slash is boy-on-boy. Adults only, please. Thanks for the encouraging feedback; I cherish every word**

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**Chapter 4. A Fly in the Ointment**

"As a former altar boy, I did learn some Latin, you know," I mutter against Edward's soft, silky cheek.

"Latin is the language of love," he murmurs, his fingers tracing a soothing path down my thigh.

_Love?_

"Of course," he offers cozily, "my Beloved. Now, call forth your wings, Jasper, and fly as I do," he trumpets, releasing me and moving back.

His very being radiates his confidence I will be fine.

I barely catch sight of the soles of his feet as I plummet at unthinkable speed from thousands of feet above to the surface of the Earth. My scream of "Who am I?" is caught in my throat, arms instinctively thrown wide, an immensely futile gesture.

In moments, Edward is once again facing me, murmuring his apologies. Holding me close and slowing my descent, he anxiously looks over my shoulders, searching in vain for my non-existent wings.

"Unfurl them," he demands, anger evident in his voice. "Why tease me, Virtuous one?"

I'm still grappling with the aftermath of my blood-curdling plunge, and making small talk is difficult.

"What fucking wings?" I manage to spit out.

He winces. "No cursing, please?"

"What do they look like? You and Jacob have the only real pairs of Angel wings I've seen!"

"Not really. Just think, Jasper. How do you know me?"

I did have a sense of déjà vu while kissing Edward. I concentrate, and there it is again. That feeling that we'd done something similar, but I couldn't get any of the details.

"Nothing?" His face is a study in disappointment.

Shaking my head in emphatic denial, my eye is drawn to the dazzling sight of his extended airfoils.

Touching his wings is irresistible, and I tentatively stroke the long, shining feathers as Edward moans his appreciation softly in my ear. "I've missed that, Jasper," he whispers like a besotted lover against my neck.

It is quite pleasurable, and closing my eyes, I lose myself in the activity for a few moments.

But reality soon intrudes on our blissful interlude. Edward is enjoying this _far too much._

"Is there any chance we could stop the floating and the flying and the plunging and the rubbing of your hard-on against me?" He freezes in mid-rub. "And, could we just stand on the ground? If I could have a careful look at your wings, I might remember more."

He looks pained, but nods his head in acquiesence.

"Not to mention, Edward, since when it is written that Angels sport erections?" Rather large ones, too, if I'm any judge.

"There has been no unjust rubbing. You wrapped your legs around me, Jasper."

And I'm keeping them there, because I really don't wish to be dropped. That's the rationale I broadcast, anyway.

"Any time now would suit me, Edward." I huff, my actor's training coming into play. "May we descend?"

Uncharacteristically, Edward stalls. Eventually, I worm his concerns out of him.

"It is forbidden to revisit your former life. There have been too many incidents and now there are problems. Entire areas are declared off-limits as humans have been inundated with ghost sightings. The Afterlife must remain a mystery, Jasper. Do you understand?"

I send him a heartfelt yes, and searching my face for evidence of my sincerity, he evidently finds it. We slowly descend to the surface, Edward holding me close like a precious jewel. Guess it was a good thing I didn't try the bouncing ball trick.

When I'm standing on the ground, Edward floating a few inches above the surface, he gives me an odd look.

"Something isn't quite right here, Jasper. Can you actually walk on the ground?"

I demonstrate what seems like a normal activity. But Edward's face is a study in contrasts as he watches me.

"How is this possible?" he murmurs in consternation. "You are dead."

"Mostly dead?" He doesn't get the joke.

"There are no gradations to Dead," seriousness imbuing his every word.

"I didn't believe I was actually dead. It didn't feel right, Edward."

"No, you are definitely dead, I made sure of it."

It's entirely possible there is no sinister meaning intended, but I'd like some confirmation, all the same.

"How were you able to 'make sure of it?"

"I was present when you had your motorcycle accident."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Walking is a more tedious activity than floating. Navigating the large boulders and talus that cover the steep trail we are traversing isn't any easier now that I am a Dead man. That may be the best explanation for the difference in our moods. Although in our own way, I suspect each of us is furious with the other.

"Why didn't you save me?" I grouse at him.

"How would that have benefited me? I told you I wasn't your Guardian," he snaps at me.

"So I am either mostly dead or lying in a hospital bed pumped full of morphine?"

"I know nothing about morphine."

"Are you lying again?"

There is no satisfactory answer to this question; I know it before the words escape my lips, so I try another.

"Can I return to my human life?"

"There is no way to reenter your human body."

"So I might as well be dead."

"Something like that."

I conclude that I am in fact not quite fully dead. Limbo-land minus the raucous music.

"Have you no inclination to stay with me, Jasper? You must know who I am. The kiss has worked before..."

"Hold on Prince Charming. I don't how many Dead men you've 'rescued' over the centuries, but Snow White here wouldn't mind being on the right side of a resurrection."

"Death is final. I thought this was well understood in your culture?"

Suppressing my growl of frustration isn't easy, but I try, asking, "Where are we right now?"

"Montana, I believe. And there is a Prince, but I am not one."

Hastily scanning Sunday school memories, I retrieve a title for his Prince.

"The Prince of Peace?"

"Yes, Savior to many."

_Surely he'd consider me a loyal subject, _I silently plead. In fact, compared to my fellow actors in Hollywood, I was a saint. No drugs, no threesomes, no BDSM, no stealing, the list went on-and-on.

We'd stopped at the edge of a small plateau and were looking out over the valley below. Being dead has its advantages; I'll never get winded again.

"Have we reached an impasse, Edward? I know you, but I don't know who you are or how I know you. Perhaps I merely recognize your face from the bystanders at the motorcycle accident that nearly killed me?"

A decidedly guilty look from Edward is his only response.

"Well, since I can walk on my own, don't need oxygen or presumably food or water, and can't grow wings, I guess this is where we part ways." I summon up some dialog from a B-grade horror film. "I shall forever more roam the Earth as a shade, wailing…"

The words are barely out before Edward has moved up close, pulled me behind him and swung me over his back and underneath his wings. And then we are climbing again, and I have the close-up view of his wings in motion I'd requested. Oddly, there is no disfiguration of the beautiful light-weight wool jacket I'd envisioned for him. A miracle, I suppose.

Holding him tight, I realize the messenger bag with my file is within my grasp.

Breaking into my very tame safecracker fantasies, Edward's voice is the epitome of dry. "The contents are not suitable for the mostly Dead, Jasper."

Thinking furiously, I offer my best bargaining chip. "Even for another kiss?" with a breathless stop thrown in at the end as a dollop of temptation.

"I am an Angel," he offers in sad explanation of his evident refusal. I guess corruption is a foreign concept to one so pure.

"Pure?" he snorts. "I'm a liar, a mind-reader, I've interfered…" His words trail off, and I'm left with the distinct sensation I was about to learn something I shouldn't know.

"You are pure evil, then," I slyly affirm. "Definitely the bad guy here." Are Angels ticklish? I'm well positioned to research this universal question.

"Don't go there," he commands, and I have my answer. But I chose not to act on this information, never mind that we are again several thousand feet in the air. If I turn my head, I risk getting a mouthful of wing.

"Edward?"

"Yes, beloved Jasper?"

"Was I once an Angel? Is that our connection?"

"Yes, of course. Do you finally remember?"

"Not a bit."

"Upon death, that door should have slowly swung open. Now I wonder how much I should reveal."

"Who would know the answer?" I ask, thinking again of St. Peter.

"He holds The Good Book, not all the answers."

"So, who's the answer man in the Kingdom?" Visions of men in red and white checkered shemaghs float before my eyes. Of course, the actual Kingdom of God is never on CNN, although Fox News may be different.

"Latter day Middle-eastern oil princes?" Edward interjects, yet again. "I prefer the traditional variety. I'll have to consult the Prince of Peace's schedule to see if he will grant that audience you requested. He's on tour, visiting the provinces again."

"We're going to meet Jesus?" Immediately, I am an awe-struck groupie—he might be even better than meeting God, or the Goddess, I guess. Which reminds me. "Wait, must I agree to complete corporeal incineration again?"

"He manifests on Earth at will, of course. He's very nostalgic about his time spent as a mortal man. Incineration is not strictly mandatory. Although I've heard rumors he's intrigued by reported cases of self-immolation by the faithful. Collecting them is a recent hobby of his."

Grateful I'll be spared the burning hellfire scenario I'd earlier imagined, I calmly inquire how we'll locate him.

"I'll contact his wife. She and I have a special bond; she's almost like a mother to me."

"Mary Magdalene?"

"Heresy, my friend. If SHE ever registers that comment, there'll be no saving you. Do you pray?"

Never quite certain when Edward's dry sense of humor is at work, I recite a quick Hail Mary just-in-case.

"Let's return to Earth so I can concentrate. You so close against my back, even through the jacket cloth, is distracting. And I'll take you up on the offer of a kiss."

"Did I fail to mention the expiration period?" Edward's answering growl is quite disturbing, coming as it does from a messenger of God.

We slowly make our return to the surface. Then, I must wait in silence before my sorely disappointed companion declares he has the desired information. "Esme says he's in London, working at a clinic in the East End area."

"Jesus is a doctor? I was thinking more along the lines of boat crew on Deadliest Catch, or maybe one of the skippers."

"Too high-profile, and he doesn't like to repeat himself."

As I mull over this latest Revelation, Edward continues, "And we'll have to wait our turn for a break in his Clinic schedule. Esme told me Il Dottore is very picky about maintaining his cover."

Even now he works with the poor, I muse. But will he be a short, dark-haired Jewish carpenter or the Anglicized version with shoulder-length blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a beatific smile. Certainly a belted robe and sandals would help me pick him out of a crowd.

"Umm, Edward, how are we to make the journey to such a far-away place? Even by plane it is nine or more hours."

"More pressing engagement, eh?"

He doesn't even wait for my sheepish reply, but continues with, "I'm a superior creature to Jacob, and you remember how quickly he disappeared."

_Well, then why did he catch us earlier_?

"Maybe I let him," Edward offers cryptically.

_Or maybe you are lying to me, Angel._

In moments, we once again have lift-off, on our way to meet the Son of God, the Prince of Peace, a carpenter of some renown.

I keep my eyes closed, the tempting messenger bag just out-of-reach but silently pulsing, beacon-like, beneath my right leg. I content myself with stroking the wings on my Angel's back, and am rewarded with moans worthy of a B-movie heroine.

And now I have my own erection to conceal.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

_A/N: Can there be any doubt of the (Twi) identity of the Prince in this warped wittle fic?_

_I do think a full-on seduction scene starring Jasper is in order for the next Chapter. Ciao._


	5. A Labour of Love

**Angel with a Messenger Bag**

**A/N: These characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The twisted tale I weave is something else. **

**Seduct-a-fic-'ccasion: Part 1.**

**Chapter 5: A Labour of Love**

There's not a lot to do while being whisked over the Atlantic Ocean on the back of an Angel. Magazines, movies, and napping will apparently never be more than treasured memories of my Human past.

So, eyes kept tightly shut, I'm trying hard not to focus on someone's delicious, thick bronze locks conveniently whipping about my mouth. At least there are no insects at this altitude—I can hang my mouth open without fear.

To pass the time, I review the agenda for my (literally) come-to-Jesus meeting. I expect to get some answers to things like: Miracle or magic that I'm dead, but not entirely? (_good luck with that one)_ Why is Edward's existence like a stone around my neck? (_just in case he's listening in right now_) Who authorized the complete erasure of any memory of tens of thousands of years allegedly spent with a certain horny Angel? (_exactly who the hell did I piss off?)_

And why can't I see my file hidden away in his bag?

If I could be assured that thwacking Edward over the head and stealing his bag would ease some of my frustration, I just might be open to the idea.

"You can look now, Jasper. We have arrived. And I've been tempted to inflict similar measures on you on many occasions." He pauses, "But we are Angels, and there will be no thwacking today."

I'd swear I heard regret in his voice, but I ignore the urge to retaliate physically. Instead, peering through my fingers, I gratefully spy the greenish, muddy Thames coming into view as the clouds part below us. We are headed for the East End, where the Son of God, Prince of Peace holds court in a free clinic.

Still working with the poor, I see. Evidently old habits are hard to break.

Edward gently deposits us in an alley between several mildly derelict three-and-four story buildings and within easy reach of a row of large, overflowing dumpsters. Dead or not, my nose wrinkles at the overpowering stench of the decaying refuse. The dingy walls send messages of countless urine deposits and frustrated artists, but my hearing is muffled. Street sounds are faint although I can see cars whizzing by up ahead of us, and human voices sound as though they are speaking from the end of a tunnel as we make our way to the main thoroughfare.

"Edward, are we visible?"

"Yes."

"How is that possible? I am mostly Dead and you are only 'real' to me because I've imagined you so."

"It's complicated."

_Like he thinks I can't follow a simple explanation?_

"Watch," he growls at me before hailing a less-than-prosperous street vendor with, "free clinic, then, mate?" I wonder why his English accent sounds so normal, only belatedly realizing that his previous flat tones were decidedly not. I'd taken it for granted he was just like me, an American.

"Corner. And sod off," the plucky fellow answers with a snarl, and then ignores us as he continues to hawk his community papers.

Although my hearing has adjusted, I'm no closer to an explanation for how Edward got an answer out of the man.

"Compelled to answer me, Jasper. He otherwise fails to register my presence, just annoyance at the momentary interruption."

"So no one will be able to walk through us, as if we were ghosts?"

"Not bloody likely. And here we are. 'Iris Free Health Clinic,' you see, and just as **His** shift ends. The _universe _provides, eh?"

Praying his irreverence has been missed by SHE, the _bella_ Goddess, I trail along behind Edward toward the Clinic's entrance. I wonder if he can tell I'm furiously suppressing my thoughts right now.

One being that Angel Edward with the crusty English accent is quite attractive. He's pulling me forward again, holding my hand, massaging his thumb against the center of my palm. And it's working, releasing an arrow of pleasure straight into my cock.

Yessir, every altar-boy's unspoken nightmare: sporting a noticeable bulge when meeting Jesus.

But that's not my most pressing dilemma. Because right now, I'm turning over the idea that perhaps my new Mostly Dead status gives me a license to explore _certain acts_ with Edward. The deep-seated urges that I denied myself when I was alive. I gave up _**a lot**_, clawing my way to acceptance as the romantic lead in big-budget films.

And all of it, the money, the prime roles, and media adulation, would have been jeopardized by the revelation of a boyfriend. Industry icons like Elton and Ellen were the exception. Just look at Charlie David. I shuddered, certain cringe-worthy episodes of Dante's Cove coming to mind. And yet…

'_I'd give up forever to touch you.'_ The thought comes fierce and unbidden, the words barely remembered from long ago.

Edward startles at the vehemence of my confession. Just as I half-turn and lift my face to his, he impulsively picks me up, wrapping me in his long-armed embrace and pushing us back against the Clinic's supporting columns, out of the steady flow of human foot traffic.

"Not necessary, my love," his assurance sparks a tingle in my lips with his face so very close to mine. "We have forever. Whatever do you want?" His desire to please me infuses the words with an intensity that threatens to overwhelm.

But the moment is ruined when I'm too tongue-tied to answer.

Feeling foolish, I break eye contact with him, focusing on the blank wall of a building across from the Clinic. And do the proverbial double-take. Shocked, I suck in a shallow breath because there's an image on it. It's a life-size stencil, the graffiti in stark white contrast against the dark brown bricks. Depicted is a bent, cowled figure seated in a rowboat, the face a white skull, the oars propelled by fleshless hands. _So not the image I'd want to see as I exit a Health Clinic's doors!_

"Ah, that's a Banksy… We think he's another one that's been interfered with… Impossible to remove, now that the art critics have found and embraced it." Edward's voice trails off. "But you've forgotten my question, have you, dearest Jasper?" Deep and throaty, the passion coloring his words sends a thrill through me. If he can evoke this reaction with so little provocation, what else might he be able to do to me?

I swallow thickly, the heat rushing to my face, leaning forward to...

And we are interrupted this time by, "Ah, so, it's you two again. When did you find him?" The accent is impeccable and upper crust. It matches the man striding towards us, trim, tall, beautifully dressed, a scruffy golden beard caressing his jaw line. The unearthly visage that is peering at both of us defies description—the smile beatific, the eyes a shining Mediterranean blue, the pale lips perfectly formed.

And here I was anticipating humble cotton robes and a beaded belt.

He's clearly a God, reinforced by the fact that I feel an undeniable urge to kneel and touch my forehead to the sidewalk. Glancing sideways at Edward, I note with alarm that my companion is in fact doing just that.

I hastily drop to my knees and hiss my displeasure at Edward for the lack of a warning. He snickers.

"Arise, my children. Michale, you've been left out in the cold too long this time, child of Nature. Erm, just how many hundreds of human years was that punishment I imposed on you, my Angel? Completed your term among the downtrodden yet? Anything of interest to report, son?"

As he rapid fires more questions at me, there is a soft glow building in the space around him, and it increases, casting a shadow of warmth that sends tendrils of some strong emotion into the East Enders scurrying past us. I'm fascinated by this phenomenon and staring, fail to respond to him within a reasonable period.

The Savior turns in frustration to my companion, addressing him directly. "Rafe, is he still unable to speak?"

"My Prince, his experience is something of an anomaly this time. I am seemingly unable to heal him. Hence, our visit unto you."

"Tried the kiss, and no results to speak of, I see."

Edward flinches in the face of what sounded like an accusation, saying, "I enjoyed it, though, as did he." He then looks askance at me before _cautiously_ correcting his Prince with, "Raphael, if you please."

It appears that the old saying, _Royalty has its privileges,_ is true on both the physical and the spiritual planes.

But, _Raphael?_ I think I prefer '_Edward.'_

He raises an eyebrow and gives me a slight nod in acknowledgment of my silent commentary just as the Prince speaks.

"Let's return inside, boys. I'll take my ease after standing for twelve hours in this human body. Tiresome, really." Passing through the door, I see 'Carlisle Cullen, M.D.' on the nameplate. Rather a posh name for the Savior, but it matches the accent, I suppose.

I decide to start off with a question of my own. "So, Jesus, sir, I'm the Angel Michale?" the disbelief coloring my query in spite of my best efforts.

"Carlisle, man. My alias, you see. And I nearly doubt it: where might your wings be, Chief of Virtues?" The Prince of Peace is not exactly pleased with current events, if I'm any judge of Royal huffs.

Edward, or Raphael, interrupts before I can speak.

"There's a glitch here. He walks, can't find his wings, doesn't know who he is, presents with a corporeal body affected by gravity… The list goes on, my Prince."

The Prince shakes his head in resignation. "Have you located our Uriel? Warriors are in short supply at present. And what news of the spiritual activities of our allies?"

This is beginning to sound like a military debriefing, one for which I'm ill-prepared. And I've had a decidedly mixed day so far, being somewhat Dead and all.

"I don't seem to have much to offer here, so I think I'll…" is all the further I get before The Son of God freezes me with a stern look.

"Michale, you will return to my rooms' public space to await us. I've catching up with…Raphael."

Dismissed, and forced to slink from the room like a misbehaving dog, I do-si-do on out of there, gratefully settling into the nearest empty chair in the anteroom. It feels like a lifetime since I 'awoke,' poised on my invisible ledge high above the wilds of Montana.

_So, am I dead_? Deep in thought as I review the possible explanations for my mostly Dead state, I'm startled when the room is filled with a strong gust as a roar drowns out all other sound. The locked door opens easily to a well-muscled, translucent, semi-giant. Toes dragging, the bastard floats across the faded, stained carpet of the Clinic's waiting room. I avert my eyes but not before registering the size of his baton.

Between Edward and this one, Angel dick is beginning to give me a complex. I wonder how Jacob stands it.

"Hail, Michale, I have missed you, my brother. Punishment over, I pray? I've much to report to the Prince, our Savior."

As with Jacob, I'm apparently well-known in the Hereafter to this beefy Angel. Good to have a reputation, I guess. I keep my eyes focused carefully on his face.

"I'm having some trouble…reclaiming my Angel abilities," I offer lamely.

The newcomer nods, sage-like, his short, dark, curly hair bouncing with the effort and offers a wink. "It's happened before, M. Don't let it throw you. I'll run interference for you." The last is offered as he passes through the open door into the room from which I was dismissed.

"Uriel, greetings!" I hear Edward exclaim with relief before the door closes with a bang.

Voices drift in, volume kept low. The Savior's mention of "warriors" was unsettling. Other than a forgettable role as a Civil War vet in a low-budget remake of a popular film, I've zero military experience.

Eventually the impromptu conference breaks up, and all parties reemerge. The Savior, or Dr. Cullen within these walls, doesn't mince words. "There will be sacrifice, my Michale, but I am ready to permit…Edward here to assist you with it."

"Can you explain why I'm only mostly Dead, Sir?"

"Dead is a concept that does not apply to Angels." I'm pretty sure that wasn't an explanation.

"Jasper, there was a punishment imposed which the Prince is graciously ready to reconsider. You've unique abilities as an Archangel we could utilise." Edward's voice is soothing, even cajoling.

Ah, now I get it: the Guv'ner is going to grant me a pardon.

"How long was my sentence? Why was I being punished?" Since I clearly screwed-up, I'd like to know what happened so I don't commit a similar act. _**'Just hand over my file, Edward,'**_ I furiously project at him. To no avail, and maybe I projected too loudly.

"Are your past misdeeds and my sentencing so relevant now, my Angel?" The Prince asks me, suddenly seeming a little less friendly, a little less benevolent.

Surprisingly, it is the quick-witted Uriel who jumps in to distract the leader with more military intelligence of a spiritual nature. Edward, alarm apparent, uses the opportunity to advance on me to hurry me from the good Doctor's presence.

"Will I ever relearn how to float? Let alone fly?" I can't disguise feeling whiny as I walk back down three flights of stairs. Angels do not take elevators, I'd learned earlier.

"Accept that there will be a _very_ gradual return of your Angel traits. Perhaps the trigger was pulled a mite too soon…err, at least, that's the explanation offered by…Carlisle.

Ah, just as I suspected, Edward did have a hand in my death. I'm mad for all of about ten seconds, but I've bigger concerns at present than inflicting a verbal tongue-lashing on my devoted companion. Plus, I'm distracted by the mention of the newest Angel and can't refrain from asking, "The Angel Uriel, does he have a Human persona he assumes? He seems like an overgrown jock to me. And he has at least six sets of wings, doesn't he?" I can't quite keep the envy out of my voice; I'd noticed the difference as soon as he'd entered the room with the others.

"Yes, he has taken brief stints on earth for specific missions. Most recently, I believe he was a member of the AFL, the Aussies' league, Emmett-something."

_Figures._ "Let's drop it, Edward. I don't know about any sacrifices alluded to by the Prince, but I want to regain my wings and my memory before I'm forced to join in battle." I've never been much of a fighter, either. Hopefully, I pick up a sword and it all instantly comes back to me, like riding a bike.

We exit the Clinic's door and step into another damp, cloudy London afternoon.

A snort from my companion informs me he heard my last thought. "On the contrary, you are our best swordsman, Michale. I'm certain you will remember all, quite soon." I don't miss the double entendre, but am distracted when Edward offers this with an arm thrown casually over my shoulder. His hipbone matches up so well with mine. The sensation nearly sends me staggering to my knees.

"Are there any female Angels, Edward?" I choke out as I struggle to tamp down the the confusing reaction I'm having to him.

"None."

_What about that Touched by an Angel series?' (_We've more than ample evidence my recall of Angel-canon is no less drilled than Swiss cheese—the Heavens could be stuffed with booby, estrogen-riddled winged flirts for all I know.)

"Complete bollocks. Sentimental claptrap."

"So, are all Angels male?"

"Some are neuter, most obviously those without a life partner, like Jacob. But I have you." The last is offered in the dulcet tones that I've stopped finding annoying.

"So, all Angels must be…gay? Just by reason of elimination…no females? And no reproduction? If Earth-like rules apply, that is," I amend.

"It's a manly sort of love," Edward offers, wistfully. "The Goddess created us all of a piece, and we have faithfully served her ever since." He sniggers before clarifying, "SHE seems to enjoy watching us, we think."

_Who knew the heavens were a slash-addict's paradise? _ I wish Alice was here with me, she would have appreciated the irony.

"And so, it would be natural for you and me," I swallow, "to…be together, both physically and spiritually?"

"Still thinking about your friend Alice, handsome? Are you pining for Alec's female body? He's not due to rejoin us for another century. I dare not retrieve _him _too soon. His punishment was more severe than yours."

_And mine lasted several hundred years? _

"Alice, or did you say Alec, was an Angel as well?" I sputter in disbelief.

_What must she or he have done? And did we do it together?_

"Why else would you have shared a physical attraction?" He asks, unconcerned by the revelation. "Weak though it might have been," I think I hear him say, _sotto voce_.

"Ahh, your altar-boy Latin continues to return, beautiful Jasper. _Te amo."_

Luckily, I had no reason to understand that phrase, but I'm well aware of its meaning.

So Alice was really Alec, and previously known to me. She might even have been my partner-in-crime, causing my banishment for hundreds of years. How many human lifetimes had I endured before Edward found me?

It's a lot to digest. I'm silent for several moments as we leave the immediate vicinity of the Clinic and take off walking to…where? I'm forbidden from returning to my old life to haunt my acquaintances, the Living on the street don't really see me or forget me immediately after they do, I'm not bound for Heaven until my wings grow back…what's left?

"I've just booked a room at Claridge's."

Ah, yes, well, there's _that._

"Sleep isn't required for Angels," Edward continues, "but in your in-between state, rest might prove helpful. We've a Linley Suite awaiting us."

_My favorite._ And thus, the better to seduce me, I've no doubt. Art Deco always did leave me weak in the knees.

"Mount me, so we may arrive that much faster." Sighing, because I don't want to walk from the docklands to Mayfair, I climb onto his back one more time. I guess a taxi is out of the question.

"Umm, how will we pay for the room, Edward?"

"American Express, of course. Do you think the Heavenly Host would be tasked to good deeds without issuance of the proper Earthly tools?"

"Silly me," I reply, not bothering to mask the sarcasm. I thought compassion, forgiveness, and truthfulness were the tools-in-trade of Angels…not everyday commerce.

And we again have lift-off, making our leisurely way back across the Thames to the century-old Hotel of Kings and Princes.

Outside the stately structures, their fronts very familiar to me, Edward spies something or _things_ that set him off. One minute I'm floating in blissful appreciation of London spread before me. The next, I'm peering over his shoulder, the ridged top of each of his vibrating wings clasped firmly within my hands as he begins forcefully chanting, "Discedo. Discedo. Discedo. Discedo." (_Be gone_)

And he nearly has a fit when the strange shining creatures, arrayed in their splendor on the opposite side of Brook Street, ignore him and appear to fuse into one. They shimmer as they send beams of a faint silvery light snaking into the few bystanders, seemingly oblivious to our presence.

He calls their names, foreign to me, and forcing them to stop and focus on him. I feel the anger radiating off him, causing his wings to lightly flex as he strives to control his temper. He's shedding now, the space around us heating up as the smaller feathers loosen and drift from the large appendages, tickling my nose as I shift to see what is happening.

"Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine…" He's reciting this single word like his personal mantra, and I notice the trio's light beginning to dim across the street. I also realize my legs, once wrapped loosely around his waist, have straightened, and I begin to slide down his back as I prepare to stand on my own.

Edward's chanting is both deadly serious and a reminder of untamed childish behaviors. "Mine, mine, mine," continues to echo loudly in the posh English setting. Eventually, the three celestial beings dim and slowly fade from our view.

Belatedly, I realize I've been chanting right along with my Angel. We are both straining from the effort expended, and it is a few moments before Edward is able to speak.

"I had to switch to English for your help, but it was worth it." Edward's excitement is plainly evident. "You did remember then, right? Michale?"

I watch as his face falls, hearing my thoughts that _I've no idea what just happened. _ A cry of anguish is torn from his lips, his frustration and disappointment evident in every line of his angelic body.

I quickly shush him, his outburst having drawn the attention of a previously oblivious hotel guest standing too close to us. Instinctively, I lean into him, and rest my head on his shoulder. Right now, flush from the curious encounter, I crave the distracting essence that is all Edward. I trail my lips over his pale, beautiful neck, tongue briefly dipping in to taste skin that smells so divine, reminiscent of vanilla cookies with a hint of cinnamon and rum.

Eyes closed, I eagerly run my hands down the swell of muscle covering his arms, leaping from the curve of his elbows to the soft forest green of his woolen jacket. Pulling at the twisted jacket buttons, my eyes flutter open to reveal his glistening skin, the chocolaty brown enticement of peaking nipples impossible to resist.

I don't pretend to try.

Fingertips delicately circle the edges of his small coins, gently pinching and twisting.

And I'm rewarded with a shudder as he whispers, "Feels so good, Beloved."

Playfully, my hands dance across the silky wonder of his silent chest. His lack of a heartbeat reminds me he's not Human, and I'm some form of Dead.

Dead or not, I'm twitching and hardening and growling. There's no mistaking either my reaction or the feel of his cock being subtly thrust against my jeans-clad hip.

"Prepared to follow me inside to our rooms, then?" His smirk is tinged with an emotion I hope extends beyond mere want.

I concentrate on the Edward-inspired lust that is curling around my legs and licking at my knees. The long muscles in my thighs tighten painfully in anticipation of what is to come. None of which is lost on the male standing at attention mere inches from me, awaiting my reply. He quirks an eyebrow at my hesitation.

"God, yes, please." My muttered surrender is all that Edward needs to hear.

"I can't wait, I'm carrying you," he informs me, eagerly scooping under my legs and folding me against him. Prancing proudly into Claridge's, his wings are fluffed and perky, the snowy white feathers swaying suggestively with his exaggerated hip movements.

Not that anyone notices him but me, but I appreciate the display.

I've had rooms reserved here before for me, but I'm already anticipating this visit will prove both unique and likely painful. I'm certain to finally get my ass-cherry popped, at least in this reincarnation.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

_A/N: Thanks for reading; hope you enjoyed it. I've already written Part 2 of this chapter and will post it soon. Edward's patience is rewarded, and Jasper's curiosity is at least partially satisfied._


	6. A Thorn in the Flesh

**Angel with a Messenger Bag**

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**A/N: These characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The twisted tale I weave is something else. I've gone five chapters with no lemonade…a personal FF best. You and Edward have been patient, and patience is a virtue.**

**Seduct-a-fic-'ccasion: Part 2.**

**

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****Chapter 6: A Thorn in the Flesh**

The Front Hall of Claridge's in London is all golden hues, high ceilings, plaster friezes, and terrazzo floors. Not exactly 'home,' but I know it well enough. I've taken refuge behind it's expensive walls too many times when extended press junkets prevented me catching my flight back to California.

The Hotel is lovely, the service efficient, sincere, and impersonal. I wonder, if I were still alive, how many here would recognize me or even notice or care that Jasper Whitlock, one of a dozen of bankable leading men, is checking into a double room with another man?

And would it be the 'man' or Edward's splendiferous 'wings' that would cause the most uproar?

I can't decide, because I'm immediately choking back laughter thinking of all the Paparazzi denied the photo sensation of the year simply because I'm mostly dead. Assuming that Edward and I can't be photographed…

Edward nudges me with his nose to get my attention before reluctantly setting me down. Shielding his messenger bag from my avid eyes, he calmly unzips the pocket for his credit card without flashing the bag's contents at me.

To distract myself from the sudden urge to grab the bag and sprint for the doors, I turn and leave his side, hands twitching. The stone floor is chilly on my bare feet, meaning my body temperature must be fairly normal. _That's odd_; I should mention it to Edward when's he's finished checking us in.

Puttering around the lobby, I catch sight of an antiqued mirror in the corner of the reception hall. Approaching it from the side, I'm almost afraid to look. But my reflection is normal; the edges of my body may be a little fuzzy, but I'm guessing it's the antique sheen, not me. I'm still tall and slender, with blond hair, wide blue eyes, and a distinctive mouth.

When I push Edward into the shower later, wings and all, I'll insist he stop and pose in front of the mirror for me. If he doesn't have a reflection, then maybe we'll revisit our earlier discussion about Vampires.

Getting to our rooms is a little awkward, as the Angel is still expressing his horror at riding 'the lift.' But we make it, and are soon standing outside our suite.

The fatted calf (me!) stands fidgeting beside him before Edward catches on and quickly dismisses the hotel staff without a tip. They depart in a daze, instantly forgetting our very existence if Edward was telling the truth outside Carlisle's Clinic.

His hand slides into mine as we halt just inside our entrance hall, quiet in its plush fabrics and muted colors. The Linley Suite is a sensuous explosion of Dupioni, Vicuna, and Swiss Voile fabrics, deployed against a backdrop informed by cool English reserve. The heavily padded carpet muffles my steps as I pull away from him, following the hallway into the main sitting area warmed by hushed hues of taupe and navy with black and cherry wood accents.

The room's scheme is very masculine, even with the vibrant, aromatic Stargazer Lilies overflowing several large clear vases. Something about the space hints at a slight naughtiness, as if the design was rendered with much more than a guest's restful slumber in mind.

Perhaps that's why I've always preferred a Linley to the other Suites.

My gaze roams over the casual arrangement of two-by-two elegant armchairs and settles on a high-back couch with deep cushions. It's covered in golden damask with narrow bands of silver thread. I'm stalling now, and I know it. Still, I imagine us reclining as one on the sumptuous furniture: back to naked chest, his hands clasped over my midsection, our long legs perfectly matched and knees drawn up as we drift off…

"Come here and let me hold you, then, my Michale," Edward's sultry voice spins like a web through the room, the first words either of us has spoken.

He beckons to me with a graceful gesture of his long-fingered hand as his other arm spreads wide in entreaty. "I'd like to view your back."

At my raised eyebrow, he clarifies with, "I'm hoping your wings are regenerating. It wouldn't be unusual after your defensive reaction to the spiritual interlopers outside the Hotel."

I nod, but remain standing at the edge of a large curtained window, the one furthest from his position by the archway. It's the view behind Edward that's reawakened my earlier skittishness: I can see most of a huge, sumptuously swaddled bed, sheets turned down and ready for immediate occupancy.

_Edward's pale skin will look amazing against those dusky pink-brown sheets_.

My eyes dart to his in a panic, certain that he just 'heard' that thought. He dips his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he reminds me why we are here. "Jasper, I've missed resting inside those wings of yours now for centuries, but never as much as I've missed you."

I snort, seriously doubting he spent the time inside my long-lost wings just resting.

Edward is too modest to protest.

I roll my shoulders in an unconscious movement to relieve the tension crackling in the space between us, and that's when I finally feel it, or rather, _them_. It's the return of my wings, the small buds snagging on the back of the tee-shirt.

The realization shocks me into action: I'm across the room like a shot, jumping into his arms, our limbs entangled as his hands eagerly trace the growths beneath the cloth.

"Two of them, just the two, for now," he confirms, his relief evident as his eyes bore into mine. "It will be a gradual unfurling. Try flexing the cartilage some."

I do, and he moans in delight. "Larger, already minutely larger. It's happening, albeit slowly. You are home, dearest Michale. We are together again, as it should be."

Edward's excitement isn't confined to his words, of course. His Angel barometer is set at straight-up granite, and I swallow down a small tremor of fear as he presses his length against my hip.

My former partner, his entire being trained on me, misses nothing. He soothes me, fingers tracing a random path through my closely trimmed hair until he's clasping the back of my neck. "Of course, this changes little, if you still don't remember me, Michale?"

My all-too-guilty look gives it away.

His hands fall to his side, and he takes one step back from me, his earlier hopes dashed. "I guess I should continue calling you Jasper, then."

I mirror his actions in reverse, and end up sitting alone cross-legged on the golden couch, needing to think. Dejected, he gives me some space and moves to stand silently beside a window, his back to me. I observe his drooping wings with envy as he shifts them unconsciously, the smallest movements rippling through the glossy feathers. It calms me to watch him, my gaze traveling slowly down his long legs to his shapely bare feet.

Those same feet are hovering effortlessly above the carpet. Reminding me that, Angel or not, I'm grounded, unlike Edward, or Uriel, or Jacob.

"Give it time," Edward offers from across the room, the platitude only serving to further emphasize the wide gulf still separating us.

Trust Jasper Whitlock to make his own death a series of bitter disappointments to be endured, rather than a shedding of earthly burdens.

I pause, disgruntled and uncertain what to do next. Sure, I'm growing a pair of wings, but why do I still _feel _like Jasper instead of The Angel Michale?

But Jasper Whitlock, successful actor, deeply closeted confused single man, and reckless motorcycle enthusiast is only my Human manifestation; I'm undeniably an Angel, or I wouldn't be growing wings_...t__hat itch!_

_Jesus_ himself called me his Angel. It's confusing, but how much more evidence do I really need?

Nor can I deny that holding Edward close seems to relieve an emptiness I've borne in silence since my teens.

I'm lucky Edward isn't pressuring me, giving me space to process all these disparate thoughts. Even if I'm irked that he's listening in again.

"Sorry," he offers, sounding genuinely contrite.

I rub a hand across my face and around my throat before letting it drift down the front of my tee. It's a simple gesture and it feels good; so good that, kicking restraint to the curb, I keep going, and yank the tee up and over my head. Free! I drop the crumpled garment beside the couch and push my shoulders forward to better scrape my growing, itching bumps against the cushions behind me. _Yep, still there._

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my companion's head turned to check me out.

"They're beautiful, Jasper, as are you. I knew you'd regain them."

_Edward, you've been telling me the truth all along, haven't you?_ I silently ask, not really expecting an answer.

He sighs and resumes gazing out the window before replying, "About you, about us? Always."

And I slowly begin to feel better about him, _about us_.

"Just better?" asks my erstwhile and impatient partner from across the room, his meaning unmistakable.

_Why-the-fuck-not?_ I silently reply, aware that Edward's shoulders jerked at the obscenity and close my eyes to concentrate.

Realistically, I can't expect to be resurrected from the Dead anytime soon, and Edward's cough confirms this. And I'm not a masochist: being alone or an unmated eunuch like Jacob for eternity? There are worse things than allowing Edward to sink his dick into me. (I hear Edward's fist bang the wall; guess we agree on that one.)

And, finally, the phrase, 'female angel' being an apparent non sequitur certainly limits my choices.

For a dead guy in my position, it's brilliantly, gloriously black and white: rejoining the Angelic ranks, I'll find as gay-friendly an environment as it's going to get. Edward and I will be just fine. And no women, anywhere, unless I get the wild hair to seduce the _bella_ Goddess.

I grin as Edward groans, "If she heard that, you just may have earned yourself another century or two of punishment."

I'll just have to live with the consequences, as it is way past time to…well, if not exactly to 'live my life,' at least, certainly to enjoy my death.

Because, the truth is…

Gorgeous Edward is a fucking turn-on, thickly feathered wings and all.

_I want to grab great fistfuls of his windblown, mutinous curls as he sucks my cock down his tight throat, breathing optional! _

_I want to rock my hips into his pretty mouth and watch his eyes widen in pleasure as I shoot my load! _

_I want the silky swag of Edward's angelic dick grinding into me as he loudly, petulantly huffs out his unbearable need for me against my burning skin!_

Overhearing my silent proclamations, Edward immediately whirls around to face me again. Flashing a dark smile, he floats closer, open palms held out before him in silent invitation. I stand to meet him, pulling him close, his subtle scent calming my last jitters.

His lips find my neck, kissing and nipping his way underneath my jaw as I shift once, twice, before we finally settle. In the space of a few seconds, we've completely relaxed into the comforting shape of one other, clicking into place like two interlocking Legos.

My earlier uncertainty disappears beneath the insistent push of his tongue against mine, his hands clamped possessively on my waist. Just as I'm prepared to give in completely, granting him whatever he wants from me for the promise of exploring every inch of him, Edward slowly releases me.

And scrutinizing my face for any signs of deception, asks: "Do you long for me, Jasper, in your heart, as I've done for you since your punishment began? Or are you simply hoping to learn more about your past, anticipating you'll soon regain your exalted position as Chief of Virtues?"

I reluctantly pull back from the tractor beam of his luminous emerald pools, telegraphing my total ignorance of the whole 'Chief of Virtues' subject.

"Forget the title; I want your response to the first part."

_Does he expect my unconditional love on the first day? _I haven't even…

"I have my..my answer, then, haven't I," he barely stutters, resignation deadening his register.

As I hurriedly blurt every soothing line I can summon, none of which make much sense, Edward's muted sigh stops me.

"So maybe I don't care about your motivations very much, beautiful Jasper. Perhaps I'll have to begin all over again to win back my Michale, whenever he finally reappears." He pauses, the tears welling in his eyes before he continues with, "Yes, it hurts. I wasn't the one who was punished for my misdeeds; I've just had to survive the loss of my partner."

The twinge of guilt I feel for something I don't even understand is disconcerting, but I still try to fix it. He listens patiently, until my voice winds down, and we are left staring quietly at one another.

He doesn't look convinced.

I try one last time, reaching for the best truth I can offer to him.

"Edward, you hold the key to everything I desire in this twilight of an Afterlife. It's your unwavering devotion here that convinces me I'll regain my memory, relearn to float, remember how to use a sword…" _Although I hope that last one won't be necessary._

"Don't count on it."

_I have no love to give you at present, Edward, but my affection is sincere. Can you accept it? _

"A brotherly kiss is just the first step in an Angel regaining a lost memory," he sniffs.

"Implying there are other steps?"

"More extreme…" he falters, needing a moment before resuming. "A strong physical connection has yielded good results. Are you willing to try to establish one with me, to see if it helps you remember?"

I swallow once, and nod. Wasn't that exactly where we were headed, anyway?

"Now, please?"

_Impatient much? _"Could we take it slow? It's been a few centuries."

"Granted," he replies soberly as he shrugs off his open jacket.

_Shrugs:_ such a vanilla verb. It doesn't come close to capturing the exaggerated twisting of his upper body and folding in of his wings. His sleek, unblemished frame, marked with splotches of deep pink from earlier exertions, eventually emerges from the green wool covering like a colorful Easter egg from a field of grass.

I'm biting my lower lip as he raises each foot to step out of his trousers and then straightens: his tall, slim marble perfection held proudly up to my appreciative stare. Drawing in a deep, unnecessary breath, I ache to stroke his wings, lifting each feather and examining it, tugging lightly and running nail edges along his tender flesh as he whimpers for a release. I have in mind the slowest of tactile explorations, the Angel prone beneath me, arms stretched high above his head…

"You, too," he softly encourages, breaking into my reverie. Deadly serious now, he motions to me to remove the jeans I'm wearing.

Never taking my eyes from him, I deliberately hook my thumbs beneath the low-slung material just barely riding my hips, leaving the zipper intact. It's my turn to sensuously flex and bend for him as I manhandle them earthward. My hardening cock gets tangled up in the cloth for a moment; Edward murmurs his frustration with the delay before reaching in to release me.

"Never must you suffer for me, Beloved," he admonishes, his mouth forming a sly grin as he looks up at me from beneath his auburn lashes, confidently maintaining his grip on my girth.

Once my jeans hit the floor, the Angel rakes his eyes over me with a happy sigh. Leaning in for a delicately rendered kiss, just a brushing of our lips, he distracts me as his long, supple fingers begin riding up and down the shaft, his other hand cradling the flesh of my ass.

Edward's handjob is nothing like Alice's: his touch is the perfect mix of rough and gentle as he kneads the angry-red tip, adopting a stroke that sends me soaring on the sensation. His mix of angelic noises and throaty groans as he expertly draws out my natural lube plucks deeply at the repressed feelings churning inside me.

_I'm almost there, Edward. Fuck…me! You truly must know me_.

He hums in agreement, rhythmically sliding his hand up and over, his face inches from mine but refusing my kisses.

"I'm already on the edge here…" The rest is drowned out by a long, low moan I can't stop, can't help, and Edward of the eager eyes decides he wants a taste of it.

His faintly crooked smile grows before he firmly covers my mouth with his soft, pliant lips. The pull in my lower belly is all-consuming. I slam forcefully into his chest, twining my arms around his neck, his steadying pressure acting as anchor for my frantic reactions.

My tongue feels swollen and greedy as he methodically caresses me with both hands and mouth, murmuring his love through our molten kissing. His other hand slips between my legs to cup my balls against his curving palm. My legs are flexing, toes clenched as he lifts and massages me lovingly, possessively with the fleshy pad of his thumb, "my **Michale**" issuing explosively from his mouth when he briefly pulls back to assess my reaction.

And then I'm being pushed onto my back against the deep cushions, legs up, as Edward drops to his knees in front of me. I watch, mesmerized, as his mouth descends to skin, pausing before he begins placing open-lipped kisses on my chest, ribs, and abdomen, slowly feeling his way down. He hesitates, and then shoves his shoulders hard against the backs of my thighs, his eyes flickering up to mine before his tongue begins teasing me, taking long swipes at my slightly curved dick. I angle my hips higher, unwilling to pull away from the intense intimacy of Edward bathing my dick in wide wet swirls, his tongue curling lovingly around the ridge and up over the head, again and again.

It's too much; my head falls back, eyes closed as I feel him engulf my full length, his lips drinking me in. He swallows my cock down to the base, and holds it there as I buck hips against his face, his throat muscles closing convulsively over me as I struggle not to come. I curse, Goddess be damned; _no woman's mouth was ever this fucking talented!_

He must hear me, because he starts to chuckle around me, the sweet reverberation travelling the length of his body. If he doesn't stop, I'll spill down his throat before either of us is ready.

Mercifully, he pulls off me and pushes up, hands clamped firmly underneath my knees, not letting go. He stills for a few charged moments, looking me over as if he's not sure what Jasper-flavored treat to consume next. It's a possessive assessment, letting me know I belong to him.

"Angel-brother, you _are_ all mine," he whispers, strong emotion flooding his features. I nod, content with his statement, ready to submit to whatever he wants from me. He draws me closer, my ass hanging over the edge now as he hooks my leg up and over his shoulder, letting the other fall to the side. And damn, exposed to the cool air, I'm suddenly, unaccountably, desperate for him to touch me.

I writhe against him, shamelessly begging for _more. My eyes devour every line, every angle, shadow and glow of Edward's beautiful face_ as my palm hugs my dick, tugging hard and blindingly fast, consumed by need and anticipation.

Knowing exactly what I want from him, the Angel sucks loudly on his fingers before sliding them beneath my balls, along the stairway to heaven. I barely flinch at the intrusion as he toys with the damp skin at my sensitive opening. Wordlessly soothing me, he moves with purpose, slipping a fingertip past the ring of muscle to lightly twist it inside me, taking his time to stretch me well before adding a second finger.

Twin arcs of mild pain and intense pleasure radiate outward. He watches me carefully as he makes me shiver, repeatedly whispering his declarations of love and admiration. "Te Amo, Te Amo, Te Amo, bell'uomo," is his personal litany as I arch for him, and pushing gently, he taps the spot that no one else has ever felt.

All too soon, my concentration fails as I let go and blindly shout "Edward, Edward…" into the stillness of our room. Clenching and shaking, my cock jerks and releases in sharp spurts, marking my hand and his chest with the hot white creaminess of my abandon. My head lolls back, and Edward is there to catch me, muttering something to me in Latin. I shake my head in denial, and he tries again, in English.

"Umm, when I'm inside you, Beloved, your orgasm will be even more intense."

I'd like to tell him to go ahead. I try, but I'm far too wracked to move, let alone find the will to form the words.

Understanding my helplessness, he tells me, "I can't bear to stop holding you. Lean into me, and I'll move us to the bed. Relax and stretch out, Jasper. I'm here to keep watch over you while you relax." _Guess even angels need some recovery time after an intense orgasm_.

His kiss, gently ghosting over my lips, is the last thing I remember before falling unconscious, but not before thinking, _This changes nothing._

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO


	7. A House divided against itself

**Angel with a Messenger Bag**

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_A/N: These characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The twisted tale I weave is something else._

_The home stretch is just around the corner. A slashy corner, of course. (Oh, yeah, famous quote from Blade Runner embedded herein.)_

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**Chapter 7: A House divided against itself cannot stand**

"Jasper. Jasper!" and then, softly, "Jasper? Come back, please?"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Reluctantly, I open my eyes to the understated opulence that is our hotel suite at Claridge's. My limbs feel heavy and my head stuffy. Dead people don't get colds, so it must be something else that is causing that gritty feeling behind my eyelids.

Alone for the first time since meeting Edward at 20,000 feet, I stare blindly at the ceiling, my tired eyes picking out small imperfections in the pale, creamy texture. Compared to the flawless skin of my Angel, the ceiling's a pitted mess. I wonder if it's my new, improved 'Angel eyes' cataloging these flaws, or just a bad paint job. Since the recent appearance of my wing nubs, I've less trouble believing Edward's story of my beginnings.

As the minutes tick quietly by, I realize I am truly alone, and try to guess at reasons for Edward's absence. And then wonder how he will choose to reappear. Will he materialize in front of me, or fly up to a window and knock for admittance, or just re-enter the suite with his room key? And would any of it influence my feelings toward him one whit? Not likely.

Because I know a truth I have carefully concealed.

I harbor deep feelings for Edward. And whether or not he's an Angel, or even a Vampire, I don't much care anymore. It's impossible to believe he's capable of evil or being the bad guy in this strange version of death I seem to inhabit. He's been solicitous to a fault; I'm the one with an attitude.

Physically motionless while my thoughts have run wild, I stretch a bit, remembering his excitement at the reappearance of my wings. The nubs don't seem to have grown much in the interim, and they still itch like mad. I'd compare the sensation to the aftermath of bad scrapes on my leg earned when I was a boy and fell down a ravine into some abandoned barb-wire fencing. The resulting scabs took weeks to completely heal, and I still have scars on my legs that require heavy make-up when I'm filming scenes. Those scars are my major imperfection. Inexplicably, I reach to pat my face for any signs of a wound, but my movements are arrested as a well-known voice murmurs in my ear, "shush, Jasper, don't touch."

I startle, and straining, twist my head to see Edward floating, Buddha-like, behind me, legs crossed, wrists primly locked over knees. On my side in the Suite's oversized king bed, I guess I missed him. Perhaps he was there all along. But I have to ask, anyway.

"Were you gone, Edward? I thought I had awoken alone."

"Never to leave you again, my Beloved. Never," he solemnly swears, his expression loving, if somber.

Emboldened, I'm tired of not knowing, and ask, "What happened to us, Edward? Why was I punished? Why were we separated? Tell me our story. I've been patient, and…" I trail off, but know he can hear the rest: _don't I deserve to know?_

He is silent for so long, I would suspect he's fallen asleep in an upright position. But Angels don't need sleep, and I must allow him time to evaluate what he's about to reveal. From his agitated manner, I guess he is debating telling me everything. _Finally_.

"Long have I loved thee, Jasper," he eventually begins.

"I share at least some of those same feelings." I reply, thinking it might serve to placate if I called him by his Angel identity, _Raphael_.

"You could try, if you like."

"Raphael, tell me the story of us?" I offer in my most beguiling voice. I have a genuine talent for manipulation with my voice, so why not use it? And deciding to help, begin with, "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…"

"You're not Skywalker, and I'm not Obi Wan," he intones, scorn slicing through the room. "And the very idea of a supernatural 'force' is beyond repugnant to one such as me. It smacks of Eastern mysticism, and popular culture claptrap of the lowest-denomination."

"Aren't you being a mite snooty there, all things considered?"

"And I was just about to tell you everything you'd like to know," he clams up with a snotty comeback, and I'm able to envision Angel Edward as a taunting teenager, the image very lifelike.

I drop it, asking, "Must I beg forgiveness? I was only trying to help," feigned petulance purposely exaggerated.

With a monumental sigh that should lift the heavy curtains framing the nearest bank of windows, I feel rather than see Edward stretch out and slip long and lean behind me, beneath the sheets. He cups my balls, and his other hand slides beneath my neck, the familiarity of his position warming the banked coals of my desire. Moaning, I make to flip around to face him, but he whispers, "No, I can't tell it if you are looking at me just now."

Since every response that comes to mind is only likely to delay his explanation, I swallow loudly, and snuggle my naked ass tight into his groin, shifting a bit to position his hard length more comfortably between my cheeks. A little teasing never hurt anybody. He groans to let me know how much he is enjoying my bold action.

"Are you so conflicted, you try to distract me just as I'm ready to spill all?" he questions, his laughter at my physical manipulations easing some of his tension.

_All I wanted was the comfort of his naked body fitted tightly along mine_. I choke back my response, and wait, cloaking my impatient thoughts. But Edward evidently can see through my focus on horses and Cobras.

"Love, 'tis a sad tale, indeed. Are you finally ready to learn what happened?"

Reigning in my frustration, I stop myself from twisting and fastening my fingers around the unholy marble throat, because he doesn't breathe, anyway. And feel the waves of his emotional turmoil resurface as clearly as if he was actually expressing it, rather than madly suppressing his feelings.

_Go ahead_, I think.

"Several hundreds of human years ago, the exact number being insignificant, the Bella Goddess was taken in by rather enterprising sort of…demon." Edward pauses to let the significance of his revelation sink in.

A Goddess succumbing to a demon? I am immediately feeling all sorts of angry emotions, Leda and the deception of the Swan-king type thoughts flooding my brain.

"Ah, yes, Jasper that was exactly the reaction that led to your banishment. Although not for the reasons you might expect."

"I'm waiting, Edward."

"There were no birds involved, at least from what I know of the story. Doves, maybe, but no swans."

I blow out a breath as I clamp down on my retort.

"The Bella Goddess was being feted over several human days by many of her Angels, including you, as it was an anniversary of sorts. Supposedly, it was a celebration of the birth of her son. Or at least, that was the purported reason for the celebration. In truth, she might have arranged it herself, giving all of her male Angels a reason to, umm, make merry in her presence."

"Fuck, you mean."

"Precisely. She likes to watch, as I've said."

"Demon?" I remind him, wondering if Edward's already forgotten why he introduced the demon-element in the first place.

"Right, right. Snake might be more apt than Demon, especially considering your earlier thoughts about cobras."

I was envisioning Fords, but I let it slide, asking, "Aren't you confusing elements of Old and New Testament accounts—Adam and Eve with The Birth of the Savior?"

"Michale, it is that irreverence that has many times led you into trouble."

"A Demon or a snake, a gay orgy, a birth, some doves, a horny Goddess…. Do your ramblings have a point, as pertains to my history?" I'm being bitchy, but those damn wing nubs are beginning to feel quite warm, having left the comparatively mild itchy sensation far behind.

"Patience is a virtue. Need I remind you, Chief of Virtues?"

"What I lack in patience is more than…" He cuts me off by placing his hand over my sputtering mouth. The familiar gesture calms me, and unnecessarily, I take in several deep breaths before turning to face him, entwined in his arms.

"What you've seen as an immortal Angel, it's incomprehensible to me. I don't share those memories. I wish I did. But that path hasn't opened to me, and maybe it never will. Perhaps this is another level of punishment for me?" I share my anguish, thinking, _Am I never to regain my Angel history?_

"Jasper, what I've seen is beyond your ken. I took you from your human life before your punishment was completed. Perhaps that was fated, and this in-between state anticipated."

"Expected by whom? Certainly not by me. So it's your hasty decision that is preventing me from regaining my memories? That single selfish decision to orchestrate the motorcycle crash is the real reason all my Angel knowledge and history is gone? Much like tears, in rain?"

I suck down another deep breath, seeking calm, but it's like throwing kerosene on flames. My eyes find his, and the agony present there is deep, and affecting. It serves to momentarily halt my escalating rant.

"Michale," he moans, stumbling over several garbled words before repeating my Angel name, like some kind of holy mantra. He moves to kiss me, but I pull back and remorselessly watch his expression wilt.

"Jasper," I correct him, feeling both nasty and sad at the thought that Michale, the good Angel persona, might be lost to me forever.

"Yes?" he stutters, his eyes downcast, a single tear rolling down his cheek. I wish I felt sorry for him. But right now, I'm too busy feeling sorry for myself.

"So what happened next? Did I slay the Demon that was enticing our Bella?"

"It wasn't so much that, as the manner in which you did it," he offers, cryptically.

"And therein lies the source of my punishment?" I ask in disbelief.

He nods, numbly, face blank, shoulders slumped, not meeting my eyes.

I hate prying information out of anyone, but what choice do I have?

"How did the demon manifest?"

"As a human scientist, hit on the head by a golden fruit."

"What? Must you always speak in riddles?"

"He assumed the shape of a brilliant English scientist, and enticed the Goddess to his orchard. He claimed to be calling upon her to help him solve a mathematical problem, _gravitas_, perhaps. You know how she can't resist being entreated for help. She knows everything, of course, and felt it was time for another scientific leap forward."

"What? Is that supposed to make sense, Edward? I'm punished over mathematics?"

"I'm not a woman," he sniffed. As if that explained anything. "And don't forget Galileo."

"Not one of Western religion's finest moments."

Both of us take a moment to think about that incident, although I doubt his take on it matches mine.

"You'd be correct, Michale."

"So what exactly did the Angel Michale do to the Demon?" I ask icily, my point not lost on Edward.

"They were in the fake scientist's apple orchard, and I believe there may have been an arrow involved. Didn't humans use arrows to shoot down fruit?"

Before Edward can once again drag me off track, I bark out, "Fruit?"

"No, Demon," he clarifies proudly. "And you identified him as such. He had even fooled the Goddess."

"Exactly how did I slay him?"

"You cut off his member with your sword. I told you, your Angel-self was quite talented."

"Where exactly was his member?"

"Ah, then you do recall the incident," he concludes, finally showing a weak smile. "You said it burned like the unholy fires of hell once the Demon Newton's deception was lifted by his dismemberment. You swore you had a most difficult time extracting it, buried as it was."

"Ouch. No wonder the Bella Goddess prefers being a voyeur of her Angels' activities…"

"Still, her son Carlisle had to punish you. He regretted it, 'turn the other cheek' being his motto and all, but she insisted. Had you not acted so precipitously, she claims she would not have been injured…by the stuck member."

"Member being a euphemism here for cock?"

"What else?"

I review what I have learned. There seems to be something not quite right. "Didn't you say this happened during a celebration replete with fornicating Angels? If so, what were Bella G. and Newton doing in an apple orchard? And where were you while I was dismembering a Demon?"

"It's complicated."

Doubting that Edward understands the significance of the twenty-first century popular culture catchphrase he's just mouthed, I ask for an explanation.

"You were her favorite Angel until this incident."

"So you are telling me I was jealous of her interest in this Demon?"

He only nods, looking away.

"Did I return her interest?"

"Perhaps."

And there it is at last, the reason I was banished to a Human existence and Edward was left to mourn. In a fit of jealousy, I'd slain a powerful Demon who'd ensnared the Divine Being and lured her away for sexual relations. In the process, I had somehow managed to inadvertently painfully injure the Goddess. Who knew a Goddess could be injured?

For that matter, how did I discover they had slipped out from the party and were back on Earth…?

"Shagging," Edward helpfully interrupts. "You were tracking the emotional disturbance that the Demon had been unwittingly causing among the Angels, and amazingly were able to sort out the deception. Had it not been for your exceptional detective skills, no one would ever have known."

"Known what?"

Shifty eyes are my answer.

"Known what, Edward? I'll ask again."

"I don't follow, Beloved."

"How was the Demon able to deceive everyone, including the Divine Being, the Bella Goddess who knows all?"

Edward clears his throat and won't meet my eyes. "No one knows. It was just another mystery at the time."

"A mystery that was dropped when it was assumed that the incident could be let go of with my banishment to a human existence?"

"Possibly. I was too devastated by your loss to pay much attention. There was no tracking of your soul, and I've had to search for centuries to find you." He pauses before adding, "And I've missed you so."

I've slipped from the Angel's embrace, kicked off the sheets and sitting up, moved to the edge of the bed.

"Were _you_ jealous of the Goddess's interest in me, Edward?"

"Never."

"As a MaleDom, were you threatened by her interest in me?"

"My Choir of Dominations is not a BDSM-fraternity, Jasper!" Edward hisses at me, seriously irritated now. "And, no, not threatened because you should never have been able to remain in her presence without incineration."

"And yet, I did just that, because otherwise how could I have killed the Demon Newton?"

"I told you earlier, it was complicated," Edward is backtracking now.

"As her favorite Angel, did she give me special protection so I might spend time with her?"

"That would make sense, wouldn't it?"

"So I wasn't with you when I was spending time with her, because you weren't granted that protection."

"Yes, that's true," he says, hesitantly agreeing with me.

"Were you jealous, Edward?"

"If I was, I would never have dared to cross the Bella Goddess. I worship her; always have."

There's something missing here, and it's swimming just below the surface of this conversation.

"Who is her favorite Angel now?"

"She hasn't replaced you, actually."

"So, now that I'm back, it's conceivable I could resume my favored position with the Divine Being?"

"Anything is possible, Jasper."

"Except, of course, I cannot recall my former existence as the Angel Michale."

"That does seem a bit of a stumbling block."

"One that could prevent me from retrieving whatever special qualities drew the Goddess to me."

"Some might interpret it that way."

"But, with my wings growing back, I could still become an Angel, and remain with you?"

Edward says nothing, a small smile ghosting over his ruby-red lips.

"How'd you do it? How'd you pull it off?"

"Do what, exactly?"

"Devise a plan to allow the Demon Newton that close to the Goddess?"

"It had to be a nearly impossible task. I've no idea who might have conceived and orchestrated such a brilliant move. Surely not me."

I stand, and walk casually around the bed, all the while talking nonsense about the devious nature of Demons and the gullible ways of Gods when their curiosity was aroused. Edward is watching me, but doesn't suspect that I'm aiming towards his messenger bag he had removed and placed on the slipper chair along the wall sometime while I was unconscious.

Distracted by my loudly-voiced speculations, he has guiltily averted his eyes from me.

I pounce, and snatching up the bag, open the flap to retrieve my file, source of all information about me.

But the pouch is empty, for there never was any file on the Angel Michale.

It was just another of Edward's many lies.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"He's burning up."


End file.
